


Dressed Like This, Your Very Breath In My Fist

by Elle Gray (LGray)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 3rd person, Auror Harry Potter, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Clothing Kink, Deepthroating, Dom/sub, Dominant Draco Malfoy, Face-Fucking, Feelings, Gift Fic, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Internal Conflict, M/M, Magical Clothes, Masturbation, Mention of 8th Year, POV Harry Potter, Pensieves, Praise Kink, Present Tense, Submissive Harry Potter, Tailor Draco Malfoy, Tea, fabric, idiots to lovers, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 00:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18789118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LGray/pseuds/Elle%20Gray
Summary: Five years ago, Draco Malfoy knelt at Harry's feet, mostly naked in a school bathroom. An offer. One Harry wasn't remotely prepared for. Today, he feels differently. But this time it's his turn to kneel. Good thing he doesn't mind that.A tale of two stubborn idiots, a gorgeous set of robes, and a promise to not get anything on the carpet.





	Dressed Like This, Your Very Breath In My Fist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lettersbyelise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersbyelise/gifts).



> For the Weirdly specific Drarry ficlet prompt: "I notice you all the time" + Pensieve. Thanks to Elise for the prompt, Tepre, Quicksilvermaid, Chibaken & Greenteafiend for the beta assistance (not all at once of course, this has been a long time coming). Also, shout-out to Onereader & Bixgirl1 for jumping on the sartorial appreciation bandwagon with Tepre and I and making this what it is. Filth. Pretty filth.
> 
> ***

# 1998 - Back then

 

'Looks like it might be time for a slightly bigger towel, Potter, if you can afford one,' Malfoy says, standing at the mirror in his pyjamas, toothbrush in hand.

 

'I'm wearing underwear,' Harry protests as he tries to draw the gap closed with one hand. The other holds his bundled clothes and toiletries and honestly, weren't bathrooms meant to have some sort of unspoken rule of not judging?

 

'Then why are you wearing a towel?'

 

'Not all of us are exhibitionist twats.'

 

'Not all of us are prudes.'

 

'Fine,' Harry huffs, because they certainly couldn't afford another fight in a bathroom after sixth. 'The button's almost gone on this pair and it seemed impolite to risk wandering round with my cock out. Happy?'

 

'Some might consider it an honour to be gifted with such a vision,' Malfoy drawls, sarcasm just as natural coming from him as the sneering and disdainful sighing he was so proficient in.

 

'Some people are fucking nuts,' Harry declares, thinking of his handful of public outings over summer and the thick press of bodies wanting to touch him, hold his hands in theirs, thank him for only half the things he'd done.

 

'And some people know simple tailoring charms,' Malfoy interrupts. 'Though it doesn't surprise me you aren't one of them.'

 

‘Yeah, well, unless you're offering, I'm going to go to bed.'

 

'And if I am?'

 

They stand in silence for a moment, Harry wondering what the hell Malfoy is playing at and Malfoy serenely considering him as he finishes brushing his teeth. He turns back to the sink to spit and Harry shoots a look at the door, wondering if it's rude to just walk out.

 

Then Malfoy turns away from the mirror, wand in hand, and stalks toward him.

 

'Lose the towel, Potter,' he drawls, slowing as he enters Harry's personal space. Harry is about to refuse when Malfoy drops to his knees and fixes his eyes on Harry's… button. Or where it would be at least, if not for the towel. He looks up after a second, expectant, challenging. Is it a test of trust? A prank? A convoluted come-on in a communal bathroom based solely on the fact Harry was maybe the only other guy in eighth who might be up for a go-around? And if it's the latter, how the hell had Malfoy found out? And really was there any _other_ reason for him to be _kneeling?_

 

Harry stops trying to hold the towel closed and gives the knot a gentle tug, hoping nothing's on display as it falls away. He watches Malfoy's face for some sort of reaction that might indicate that's the case.

 

All he says though, is, 'You're an Arrows fan?'

 

'Oh. No, they were—' Harry cuts himself off and blushes. Hard.

 

'Someone else's pants, Potter? Kinky. Or desperately sad and unsanitary, perhaps.'

 

'They belonged to…' he pauses. Wonders which is worse — Malfoy thinking he's wearing hand-me-down underpants or the truth. A truth he'd only told a handful of people so far. But why should it be a secret at all, when maybe Malfoy (on his knees, after all) was hiding the same thing and Harry wasn't judging _him_ for it. Maybe no one would care. 'A guy. That I knew. Know. Someone I know. Who's a guy.'

 

'They belonged to a guy you know?'

 

'Yes. Well.'

 

'They belonged to him well?'

 

'I _know him_ well.'

 

'Intimately, I'd assume if you're wearing his undergarments?'

 

'Yeah. Yes. Very… intimately.' Harry feels the blush rise in his cheeks.

 

'Hmm.'

 

'Is that okay?' He hears the snarky edge in his own voice.

 

'Yes, but I don't see what it has to do with your button.'

 

Harry doesn't want to explain to Malfoy, kneeling at cock height, while they're both mostly naked, why the button was loose, so he just raises his eyebrows and tilts his head suggestively, willing him to understand.

 

A blush of comprehension creeps swiftly up Malfoy's pale cheeks. He looks away from Harry's face and straight at, well, what was in front of him. Not lingering, expression tight, he lifts his wand and places it gently on the single green button of Harry's boxers and whispers a spell that not only fixes the loose stitching but also sends a wave of tingling coolness right through the fabric onto his skin. It tickles.

 

Harry has to look away. The ceiling is really high, dark. Cobwebs. A bra that seems to have gotten quite lost. Pipes everywhere. Lots of pipes. Long, thick— no. That isn't helping. He looks back down and finds Malfoy staring up at him.

 

'Thanks,' Harry says.

 

'No problem,' Malfoy breathes and rises to his feet. A flick of his wand and a robe comes flying out of the shower cubicle two down from Harry's. 'Let me know if you ever need a hand with anything else.'

 

# 2003 - Present day

 

It's in Harry's second straight hour bent over a pensieve, looking through strangers' memories, that he realises something. Something that every single witness had obviously taken in, in detail, at the time of the robbery, and that he himself had taken for granted during the questioning that followed it. Maybe just for two hours, but also, on reflection, maybe longer. Maybe he'd been taking this particular thing for granted for a good, long while.

 

Draco Malfoy is inherently noticeable and undeniable beautiful. He is resplendent in every single white-wisp account of the day's events, from shopkeepers to passers-by to the gaggle of new Hogwarts students, some barely eleven, busy stocking up on stationery and sweets in the late summer shine of Diagon Alley. He's always there, just beyond the madness of the thief's escape. Even the overtly (she'd told him) lesbian bookshop owner — the one who'd accused him of staring at her tits (he wasn't, there were words on her shirt and he'd been trying to read them) — even _she_ had noticed Malfoy. In her memory, he looked slightly more feminine, soft, his hair a fine, pale gold. Wishful thinking. Due to the delightful nature of lonely young men, sinfully-tight boxers, tattle-tale cocks and that incident in the communal eighth year bathroom, Harry is very sure of Malfoy's masculinity. All of it. Not inconsiderable as it was. Or appeared to be, at least.

 

Anyway.

 

Malfoy's there. In the memories. A lot. All the ones Dilworth had collected and all the ones he and Ron had collected (and why weren’t _they_ doing this bit). All of them. And by midday, Harry is **…** not sick of him, because he never _says_ anything in any of them, but he's **…** done for a bit. He needs a break. Because after 37 different accounts of what'd happened (and he was still no closer to figuring it out) what he _was_ doing, was watching Malfoy and not concentrating on the actual witness accounts. So, yes. He needs a coffee, probably (it'd been an early start and tea wasn't cutting it) and a large, very serious, scone. Something with flavour and lightness and crisp edges.

 

The Ministry cafeteria is not the place for such a thing. There are a few options in easy apparating range, but Cornwall seems an ostentatious sort of a distance to go for a scone and he isn't even sure that tiny bakery in the laneways of Brighton is open on a Wednesday, so there's little chance he'll get lucky. With the scone. Not with anything else.

 

He stands up from his desk and casts a few protective charms over the pensieve — he hasn't finished with the memory inside it quite yet (as in, he'd watched it, but not really, though he had noticed Malfoy seemed to have a rather nice arse from that angle). He would have to rewatch it. And maybe the one before it, too. He can't really remember when exactly he'd stopped paying attention. Yes. Coffee. Scone.

 

Only one bakery remains, and really it's more of a tea shop, and also obnoxiously expensive and yes, maybe it's a bit close to the scene of the crime and Malfoy's own shop, but it's not like Harry can help that. He has no control over where Mr and Mrs Teashop put themselves. Or the quality of their scones. In fact, it isn't Harry's fault at all that he ends up there, and it's only logical that he decides to eat in, since obviously he's in dire need of a bit of a change of scenery.

 

Of course, he isn't to get it, because _of course_ , in his effort to avoid Draco Malfoy by leaving the safety and privacy of his warded office, he inevitably runs in to him in said tea shop. But there isn't any way for it to be helped, of course, because the tea shop is where it is and Harry can't move it further from the scene of the crime or from the shop Malfoy owns. Whatever it is he sells in there. Stuff. Expensive things. He should try to remember. Whatever.

 

So Harry is there, sitting between an elderly couple and a woman in her mid 20s glued to her phone, her fake plastic nails _tap tap tapping_ on the glass screen. And Malfoy walks in, easy, silent strides and legs so long he probably needs to have his trousers special ordered. Harry is quick to notice a few things: there's a length of white ribbon-like something hanging around his neck; he's had his hair cut since yesterday; and yes, his arse is also nice from _this_ angle. The white ribbon (which isn't a ribbon at all but a measuring tape) reminds him what Malfoy sells (menswear). This is the only thought that keeps Harry from staring at his arse the entire time it takes to order a dirty chai to take away and a florentine because — as he says to Mr Baked Goods behind the counter — he fucking deserves it if he has to measure the affluent and unwashed for another set of robes before it's a decent hour to start drinking. Whatever that means.

 

Draco Malfoy and his arse then turn around to lean against the counter and wait, right hip cocked to prop him up and unreasonably long legs crossed at the ankle. And maybe Harry imagines them wrapped tight around his waist, or maybe it's just his self-defense training kicking in and he's running through the various threats he recognises in the pretty package of a magically powerful, morally grey, aggressively blonde tailor. One who also saw what happened yesterday. Harry realises he hasn't watched Malfoy's own memory yet; maybe he was subconsciously saving it for the end, his swan song. Because if the next sixteen memories he has to watch (and, if he's honest with himself, the twelve he should probably re-watch) are full of Draco Malfoy as well, he'll be just about dead by the end of the day and it really _will_ be a swan song. If he isn't dead already, because Malfoy has caught sight of him now and he's giving him a Look that says things Harry is afraid to attribute human phrases to. It's an animal look, really, almost patiently hostile, if a vicious carnivore could _be_ patiently hostile for long enough that their prey might form thoughts about it.

 

Malfoy leans forward, his centre of balance shifting, and he peels away from the wooden counter, taking two languid strides with his Legs™ and pausing in front of the empty chair opposite Harry.

 

'What are you doing here, Potter? Don't you have a mystery to solve?'

 

'I can't talk about ongoing investigations,' Harry says, because it's been drilled into him so that even at his most tongue-tied and utterly bloodless-of-brain he can still make the words. Even when all that precious, thought-allowing blood is in his cock, which is trying gregariously to engorge itself to a point of Taking Control of His Actions. 'What are you doing here?' he asks.

  


'Getting _coffee_ ,' Malfoy says, like he's talking to a five-month-old malamute with an obvious tendency for day-drinking and poor drool control.

 

'And a florentine,' Harry points out, to prove that, _Yes, he is paying attention, thank you very much,_ and was just being polite in asking (except not really, he hadn't known what else to say).

 

'Watching me again, are we?' Malfoy smirks. 'Just like sixth.'

 

'Well yes, I'd hate for you to be up to something…' Harry tilts his head to the side, as if considering the fact that, _yes, he had followed him around for most of sixth, but also, that Malfoy really had been up to something, hadn't he?_

 

'Oh?' Malfoy feigns surprise. 'Still a self-righteous twat, then, are we?' He smirks. ‘Good to see you’ve grown as a man, Potter.’

 

'Twat with a badge and the power to arrest you,' Harry grumbles at him.

 

'And obviously still full of your own self-worth.' Malfoy turns to go with a sigh that almost sounds disappointed.

 

Harry panics. 'Sorry,' he blurts, wondering if it's true.

 

He gets thrown another Look over Malfoy's carefully tailored shoulder. He's got a slate grey brocade waistcoat on over his white shirt. It comes in nicely at the waist and accentuates his lean frame. He looks annoyingly good in it.

 

'What are you doing today, Potter?' he asks, giving him an appraising once over.

 

'Coffee,' Harry says, attempting to mimic Malfoy's earlier tone of condescension.

 

'And a scone, yes,' he rolls his pale grey eyes. 'But then what?'

 

Harry hesitates. He never really knows what to do in the moment someone asks him what he's doing but clearly has plans for him to be doing something else. He tends toward wanting to do whatever it is they’re thinking of, just to see that look on their face of, _‘Really? Excellent! You will? Brilliant!’_ The rush of approval. Of value. When of course he should probably continue with the plan to do the thing he gets paid for. And yet… intrigue. Malfoy. Wanting something from him. He’s even tempted to give in to that need to say something witty, like, _I dunno, you tell me…._ But then, that'd almost sound like flirting.

 

'Why?' He says instead. 'What do you want?'

 

'I need a model,' Malfoy says, turning back to him and bending slightly to place his hands on the back of the empty chair. The white measuring tape swings free. Harry imagines tying those slender wrists together with it, just in case everything goes south. Maybe Malfoy is trying to lure him to his shop so he can figure out if Harry knows yet who took the Series 7 _Berserker_ (broom of brooms, and merely a concept model at this stage) because _he_ took it and he needs to know if maybe Harry has to be quieted.

 

But that word… model. It makes Harry feel sort of sexy. Wanted. His resistance is withering fast. Even though Malfoy is likely to just yell at him to be still and poke him with pins and complain his shoulders are too broad for his height (they are, it's true) and that _'Jesus Christ, Potter, do you really need so much unseemly thigh muscle for someone who sits at a desk all day?'_ And yes, he does, pounding it at the gym is the only way he can sleep properly these days. Or liquor. But he's learned his lesson with that.

 

'Why me?' he asks.

 

'You're about the same height as my client,' Malfoy explains. 'Who is abroad and still seems to think it reasonable to order a full set of fitted robes to be ready the day he gets back from the Caribbean on his unnecessarily large yacht with his plethora of useless women.' He sighs. 'Apparently he has an important _thing_ that night.'

 

The tapping in Harry's periphery stops and he turns to see the Miss Twenty-something look up and shoot a distinctly feminist glare at Malfoy. Harry decides maybe he should get him out of here before he accidentally starts something or changes his mind about the modelling and stops flattering Harry's ego.

 

'Okay then,' he says and slides out from behind the table, grabbing the rest of his scone in his left hand and his heavy, scarlet outer robe in his right. He stands and finds himself still at a disadvantage, since Malfoy is close and very tall and, well, significantly better dressed. Harry is wrinkled and wearing a Primark shirt that he kinda hates because the only way he can find a shirt to fit his shoulders and his waist at the same time is to get someone like Malfoy to make it for him, and he hasn't bothered to do that, so the thing is a giant square with sleeves. He probably looks like Spongebob Squareshirt.

 

'Dirty Chai!' Mr Coffee Guy calls from the counter and Harry is saved from enduring the Piercing Stare of Draco Malfoy, sartorial judgement specialist, who was clearly, just a second ago, noticing the Primarkiness of his shirt. At best he was mentally measuring Harry for… someone else's robes. Not for anything else. Certainly not for how he would fit against Malfoy's own chest, for how Harry could probably duck his head and nestle under that smooth, pale chin. Or how Harry's 'unreasonably muscled' arms might grip Malfoy right around the soft part of his waist, below the ribs. And how his shoulders, then, would make a perfect resting place for Malfoy's own arms as they draped down his back and pulled him closer. How he could gently bend Harry backwards and wait 'til he unburrowed from beneath his chin and leaned back into it and then how Malfoy would curl over and place his mouth, hot and sweet from his dirty chai, against the sensitive skin of Harry's neck and nip at him. Licking at his own teeth marks with an animal purr of satisfaction that he'd finally had his ever-present former nemesis in his thrall… and look, isn't he merciful, not ripping his throat out? Isn't he generous, only nibbling at him? How kind, how selfless, simply licking him 'til his little Gryffindor heart bursts and he dies in paroxysms of previously unknown delight. Draco Malfoy is a beautiful predator, and Harry Potter might just be his bunny rabbit. His lunch. How dreadful. How he hoped it was true.

 

Malfoy turns away and strides back to the counter and Harry stares at his arse and bites into his scone to hide and it and fails, because now he just looks more blissed out than he did before when he was just _imagining_ the feel of it. Because the scone is soft against his teeth yet firm against his tongue, with an elastic pliance that begs to be devoured. Bum-cake.

 

'Come along, Potter,' Malfoy calls, not even looking back (luckily, since he’d have seen Harry’s far-too-easy acceptance at being told what to do). Then he's gone, behind the tinkle of the bell above the door before Harry can remember how to move again. Miss Twenty-something is looking at him like he's _weird_ and he feels a bit warm and a bit silly so he follows Malfoy out of the tea shop and two doors along and into the dark wood and woollen cavern to see a flash of silver movement slip into the back room, the burgundy curtain swishing its pleasure at caressing him, though it must do it a hundred times a day. Stupid curtain.

 

There's a young guy behind the counter, straightening a pile of soft purplish jumpers, even though they don't need straightening. Harry wonders if it’s one of those moments where one might try to look busy because the boss has just sashayed back into the office looking very determined and like someone is about to have A Job To Do and by god does everyone hope it's not them.

 

Harry pushes the curtain aside and steps into the back room. Malfoy is standing at the far right by a window, watching as an older man, maybe seventy, sits on a stool and adjusts something on the gold-hemmed robes of a bored-looking customer — a portly, middle-aged man, reading a paper and apparently disapproving of it. Harry almost expects to see a long handled cigarette in his free hand, for some reason. He wonders if this is the 'affluent and unwashed' Malfoy was talking about. The slight waft of body odour and cigars makes him think it is.

 

'Potter. Over here,' Malfoy says, looking up at him for a moment and then reaching for a swathe of black fabric slung over a rack against the wall. 'Put this on,' he says and flicks a hand at the curtained dressing room in the corner, wandlessly drawing it open. 'Be careful with it.'

 

Harry pads carefully around the other men, and trades the outer robe of his Auror uniform for the mass of black. There are five separate coathangers. He looks up in mild alarm (what on earth is he about to put on?) but Malfoy's busy frowning at what Harry's handed him, regarding the heavy red fabric with dubious curiosity. Harry shrugs internally and slips into the dressing room and draws the curtain closed. This one is also burgundy and the same plush velvet as the other. It doesn't swish lovingly at him but he is impressed that it closes properly, giving him complete privacy in which to undress. To be mostly naked only metres away from Malfoy for the first time in years.

 

This time Harry's going to be the only one in just his pants, though. Malfoy isn't standing boldly at a sink, brushing his teeth in his far-too-tight black boxer briefs. He isn't catching Harry's gaze in the mirror as he comes out of the cubicle, and turning to scrunch his brow at him as if he's somehow just _showered_ wrong. There _is_ every chance Harry is going to put all these clothes on wrong though so maybe it'll be the same after all. Well. Up to the point where that _thing_ had happened.

 

He could still vividly remember standing toe-to-toe with him, and that Malfoy's gaze had been so intent that Harry had had to look away, but he'd foolishly looked _down_ and _well…_ that hadn't been a good idea had it? Because, while Malfoy's fancy black pants had been tight already… when Harry saw them then, they had been… strained. A bit. Well. Quite a bit. Not, like, completely. But definitely… significantly strained. More than they had been before.

 

Harry had panicked and scarpered back to his own room for an enthusiastic but confused wank — over fucking Malfoy of all people — and studiously avoided him and all the weird feelings he'd stirred up for a good couple of weeks. Something had come up with Lisa Turpin (he may have started it) and he'd jumped head first into a shallow but very publicly noticeable relationship for the rest of the year. And he'd only thought of Malfoy and his dick again once the two of them were far, far away from each other, after school was over — Malfoy in Italy and Harry in London — never to be brought out and examined in the light of a white-tiled bathroom again. The memory (and fantasies of _what if?_ ) had stayed safely in Harry's darkened bedroom and lubricated fist.

 

But now Malfoy's meltdown-inspiring cock is all grown up and it's on the other side of the burgundy velvet curtain. And Harry's not scared of himself anymore, of what he likes. He'd done his soul-searching, mostly at the bottom of a bottle of rum, and he'd come to see what that moment all those years ago had been about. It was a fucking invitation, and he'd been too chickenshit to even consider acknowledging it. And now… was this another chance?

 

Malfoy had been intimidating enough at eighteen — thin, tired and bitter, while still annoyingly attractive and relentlessly self-assured despite everything. But now… now he was taller, and hotter, and definitely better dressed (something the entirety of Diagon Alley at 11:45am yesterday seemed not to have missed), and he had all _this._ Harry looks around the changing room, at the fancy mirror mounted on the wall and the plush armchair and the flocked wallpaper and the shiny brass hooks he'd hung all the black things on. Malfoy's Empire, where the dressing room is nicer than Harry's house. Yeah. Now is definitely worse — Malfoy clearly has his shit together. He's _eligible_ and he'd had a thing for Harry at school, and now he's somehow lured him here to take his clothes off and parade around. There's a chance this isn't entirely above-board. That maybe he's after something still.

 

And then it all gets a bit clearer, just how much trouble Harry is in.

 

'All done, Mr Copplethorpe,' says a voice, soft with age, and Harry hears the rustle of a paper and a _'Very well, I'll await your owl',_ followed by heavy footsteps and the swish of a velvet curtain, before:

 

'You might as well go to lunch, John,' Malfoy says. 'Cameron has the front covered and I'll be here now if he needs me.'

 

'Very well, Master Malfoy,' the old man says.

 

'Remember I owe you another fifteen minutes as well, from Monday. You may as well take them now while the weather is nice.'

 

'In that case, I shall take a turn in the park, I think.'

 

'See you at two then,' Draco says and Harry looks down at his watch. Two o'clock is an hour away— He’s going to be alone with Draco for an hour. Semi-dressed and semi-hard at the very thought of it. He was semi-screwed. Semi-unprofessional and only semi-here on business.

 

Harry takes off his boots, his shirt, his trousers. He lifts the first hanger.

 

'Going okay in there, Potter?'

 

'Yeah, almost done,' he lies.

 

'Do you want a tea?'

 

'Er,' Harry hesitates. He's just had a coffee, but a tea sounds comforting. 'Yeah, sure. Please.'

 

'Cameron?' Malfoy calls, loud enough to carry but polite still. There's a pause and Harry is doing up the buttons of a fine black shirt when the answer comes.

 

'Yes, Sir?'

 

'Make Mr Potter a cup of tea, would you? And then make sure no one comes back here. We should respect his privacy. The media are somewhat unhinged when it comes to him and his entourage.'

 

'Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.'

 

Harry's mind skips over the unexpected courtesy and lingers on Cameron's subservient tone, the eager acquiescence. The way Malfoy expected complete obedience. As he pulls on the trousers, he wonders why he cares. As he does up them up, he wonders why this fabric feels so nice against his skin, why his dick seems so interested in the pressure from the zip, why he feels the need to run his hands down the front pleats, smooth them out, casually touch himself. He spends the time it takes for Cameron to return with tea, half-concentrating on the ridiculous amount of buttons on the waistcoat and half-wondering what Malfoy's doing out there, if he sewed this himself, or if he's lying about the ensemble being for a client at all.

 

He hears the gentle rattle of a tea tray as he fixes the last button down. They’re cold to touch and shining black like onyx or something. Hell, maybe they are onyx, that’d be about right for Malfoy. He risks a glance in the mirror, wondering what all this black will be doing for his skin tone and is surprised to find it’s not too bad. The trousers, other than making his legs feel amazing, are cut to skim the bulk of his thighs white still keeping tight against his hips. They taper somehow into a respectable sort of clinginess around his calves, like they’re meant to be worn with boots just like his — slightly utilitarian and with just one too many buckles to be subtle.

 

The shirt and waistcoat are very flattering, the pouf of the sleeves mean there’s no strain around his biceps and he has a full range of motion still. The darkness matches his hair so perfectly it almost looks purposeful. He doesn’t even seem pale, or wan like he’d feared might be the case. He’s become a study in contrasts. Endless black and pale skin, eyes brighter, lips pinker than he’s noticed them being before. Not that he really looks at himself that much. He doesn’t usually have time.

 

He slides the outer robes off the hanger as Malfoy dismisses the boy, finds all the right holes and drops them over his head without undoing the clasps. The fabric wraps around him like a soft, localised hurricane, magically adjusting itself to the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his throat, the narrow girth of his waist. It hugs him. Not _tight_ , per se, but… something else. Another sensation he can't name but it feels like being… held up. Hovering above the heaving chest of a new lover, half imagined, half right there in the press of the cloth against his fluttering heart. His eyes are closed before he notices it's happening and his breath is growing almost painful in his chest. What is he doing? It's like he's just fallen in love with a set of robes, just like that. Madness.

 

Harry takes a heavy breath, looks at the last hanger. Tries to find a seam or something with his fingers, wondering what could be left for him to be wearing when he's already dressed. He discovers nothing. It's just fabric.

 

'How long is this going to take?’ Malfoy drawls from the other side of the curtain, the clink of fine china an accompaniment to his words. ‘Are you okay?'

 

'Yeah…' Harry's voice cracks on the single syllable and he's back in the bathroom for a second, freaking out and wanting desperately to run away, though he can’t quite quantify _why_. 'I, er. The last hanger seems to just be fabric?'

 

'Come out and I'll show you how it works.' Well, if that isn’t a loaded sentence.

 

Harry takes a breath, turns and looks at himself again in the gilt-edged mirror, far too close in this space, now, with the overwhelming decadence of the outer robe. There isn’t even the light available that the matte weave of the fabric deserves. Or maybe it’s absorbing light itself, who could tell… it’s… Wow.

 

'Potter?' Comes a teasing voice from the other side of the curtain. 'Do you need help?'

 

Harry does not need help. He’s… impeccable. Resplendent. Glorious. The fabric is simultaneously crisp and smooth and soft to touch, billowing and clutching at him in all the right places. He looks taller and slimmer and the mess of his stubble and his hair looks almost like a purposeful juxtaposition of beatnik cool next to the sharp lines and neat edges of each garment.

 

Harry looks at himself again and wonders if it would be "behaving inappropriately with a witness" to simply go out there looking as good as he does. But then, Malfoy obviously had a hand in making these robes, he will have brought it on himself, and far be it from Harry to deny him his suffering. Maybe he'll just be pleased they fit nicely. Maybe he won't notice how good they made him look at all. Maybe the chance they missed in the heavy winter of eighth year, among the grief and the confusion and the not-quite-coping, was gone for good. Heck, maybe Malfoy’s married and Harry’s being used purely for his body and its convenient similarity to that of someone else.

 

He turns and draws back the curtain. Malfoy is standing in the middle of the open space, sunlight falling across his whole side, reflecting off his hair and his cheekbones and a delicate rose-patterned teacup, held almost touching his lips. He’s staring out from under pale lashes, eyes wide, intent. He doesn’t move. Harry doesn’t either.

 

Maybe there is hope.

 

Harry looks for a wedding band and finds nothing but a slight tremble. Malfoy takes a sip of tea and sets the cup back in its saucer and on the tray.

 

'That looks okay,' he says. Liar.

 

'It's nice,' Harry says, following his lead. 'Comfortable.'

 

'The length is good on you.'

 

 _And in me,_ Harry thinks. _Especially if your length is all it seemed to be last time we were alone together._ He gives Malfoy a twirl, making the tails of the robe flare out, rippling in an arc around him.

 

'Bring me the last coat hanger,' Malfoy says.

 

Harry smirks at his feeble attempt at feigning disinterest and steps back into the changing room to retrieve the last item.

 

'What is it?' he asks.

 

'It's mostly just a scarf,' Malfoy explains, voice soft as he runs the swathe of fabric through his fingers. 'But also sort of a pashmina, hijab, habit. It's a hood or a cape or shawl, whatever you need it to be.' He slips it off the hanger and shakes it out, and while it had looked exactly like the fabric the outer robe is made of, Harry can see now it's finer, lighter. Malfoy grips a corner at either end and steps closer, eyes fixed on Harry's, searching.

 

'Sounds useful,' Harry says, and he sees Malfoy’s lips quirk up minutely at the breathiness of his reply. Fuck. Well, at least his own interest is clear, no point missing out due to any sort of doubt. And his reaction is… if not exuberant, at least tolerant.

 

'Oh...' he says, with his signature smirk and a twist of long arms and black fabric, 'It is.' The scarf settles around Harry's neck, and Malfoy steps in closer still, reaching over Harry's shoulders and wrapping each end around to the back, tucking them away. They're practically hugging.

 

'Can _you_ be?' Harry asks, the words a mere breath on Malfoy's pristine jaw.

 

'Can I be what?' Malfoy asks, his hands moving to smooth down Harry's chest, tweaking the lapels into place.

 

'Useful. You might remember, a few years ago, you said that if I ever needed a hand with anything…'

 

Malfoy gives him a burning look and takes his hands away. 'Yes, well. Apparently you didn't need any help avoiding me or fucking Lisa Turpin into the hearth rug every Sunday night.'

 

The satisfaction of obviously having been correct all these years is dampened considerably by the fact Malfoy is no longer touching him, and that he seems put out still. Hurt, even. But perhaps all he needs is for Harry to be honest?

 

'I wasn't ready for you,' he admits.

 

'And what? Now you are?'

 

'Yeah. I've thought about it.'

 

'Is that why it took you so long to get changed? You were trying to think?'

 

Harry huffs out a laugh and reaches for one of Malfoy's hands. 'I thought about it right after it you said it, actually,' he says, wrapping his fingers around the pale skin of Malfoy’s wrist. 'In my bedroom. Alone.'

 

'Did you now?'

 

'Yes.' Harry squeezes once and lets his grip loosen, running his hand up Malfoy's arm ‘til he reaches the rolled up cuff of his shirt at the elbow.

 

'And now you're telling me about it?'

 

'Yes.' Harry let his fingers skim back down Malfoy's forearm, over the dip of his wrist, finding the hollow of his palm.

 

'So we're going to stop pretending that it didn't happen?' Malfoy takes his hand back and tugs at the scarf. Harry feels the soft prickle of magic unwind it from his neck and it slides forward off his shoulder and hangs there in Malfoy’s pale grip.

 

'Nothing _did_ happen.' Harry looks up and meets his eyes. 'Nothing I could be sure of at the time.'

 

'I knelt before you. At your feet. Tell me you're not that oblivious.'

 

'Not oblivious, just scared to look too hard at myself back then.'

 

'Conquered a maniacal dark wizard hell bent on destroying you, but couldn't handle me getting too close to your dick?'

 

'Something like that, yeah.' Harry holds his breath, waiting. Wondering whether he's overstepping his personal boundaries or just professional ones. Wondering where all this boldness is coming from. Wondering if the robes are making him a little crazy. 'Let me make it up to you?'

 

'Take off the justaucorps,' Malfoy says, and summons a coat hanger to his waiting hand, draping the scarf over it before summoning another. ‘The jacket,’ he adds, before Harry can ask.

 

Harry runs a finger down the front and the clasps pop open. If there was ever a time to show off, it’s certainly now, with Malfoy teetering on the cusp of letting him have what he wants. And if there’s only one way for Harry to get this _thing_ for Malfoy out of his system... Being taken apart in the back room of his shop and fucked back together doesn’t sound too bad.

 

He hands the robe over and Malfoy settles it on the hanger before sending it wandlessly across to the rack. Then he steps in and runs his hands up over the lines of the waistcoat, spreading his fingers out across Harry's broad shoulders and running them down his shoulder blades, his back, til they find the cinch at his lumbar, and tighten it slightly. Malfoy whispers in Harry's ear as he holds him against his chest, trapped in a warm, tight cocoon with the heat of his skin bleeding through Harry’s clothes, his breath dancing on his neck and the sharp scent of log fires and orange peel invading his senses. 'I do hope you're going to be useful too, Potter. This time.'

 

'This time?'

 

'I've been waiting five years to get you alone again.'

 

Harry’s ego blooms at the declaration, his heart pounding. 'I'll try.'

 

'I'd hate to be disappointed again.'

 

'Then,’ Harry hesitates for just a second, wondering. ‘I guess you should be very clear about what you want. This time. Maybe not leave anything to interpretation.'

 

'Would you like that?' Malfoy leans back and gives him a questioning look. 'If I told you what I wanted you to do?'

 

'Yes,' Harry breathed.

 

'Yes, _Sir.'_

 

'No need to call me Sir, Malfoy.'

 

‘Oh, I wasn’t going to. You see, I’m not really the submissive type.’ _Good._

 

‘And yet you knelt in front of me the first time.’

 

‘I didn’t want to scare you, Potter. Apparently I should’ve done it in fluffy pyjamas, because you were still petrified.’

 

‘Why the change now? You don’t seem worried about scaring me now.’

 

‘Because you came to me this time. And so you play by my rules.’ Malfoy gives him a crooked grin. ‘If that suits you?’

 

‘So long as you actually _do_. You were never very good at playing fair, Malfoy.’

 

' _Mr_ Malfoy, to you. Or _Sir._ Those are your two options.'

 

'Not Draco?'

 

'No,' he says, and Harry feels Malfoy’s fingers tighten around the waistband of his trousers and pull up slightly. Just enough to feel the seam press against his balls, uncomfortable but painless. It feels… nice. _Fuck._ This is actually happening. 'Though perhaps I'll call you Harry. Or maybe Pet, if you're good.'

 

'And if I'm not?' Harry raises an eyebrow, slipping into his role.

 

'Then,' Malfoy pulls slightly harder and the seam draws up between the cheeks of Harry's arse. 'I'm not going to tell you who stole your precious _Berserker_.'

 

It’s then, held close, tight, with eyes wide and his jaw slack with shock, that Draco kisses him, hard enough that Harry would have fallen over without those strong arms holding him up. There’s a nudge against his knee, a pressure, and he steps back, keeps stepping. Back, back, til they’re tangling with the burgundy velvet curtain, shoving it aside. Then, inside the changing room, Draco pressing him hard against the mirror. Harry turns his head to breathe, gasp, into the space, the heat of his exhale fogging the glass to a blurry mist.

 

'You know who did it?' he asks.

 

'I know who's going to do it to _you_.'

 

'Draco—'

 

Harry feels a hand close around his throat, rest there, not squeezing, just letting him know that it could. Letting him know to behave. And holy _gods_ does he want to, so so badly. Of everyone he’s ever been intimate with, loved, trusted, no one’s ever wanted to do this. But now… Here. Draco. Can he?

 

'I told you,’ he purrs. ‘Mr Malfoy, or Sir. It was kind of me to give you options. Don't test me.'

 

'Yes, Sir,' Harry breathes. _Fuck it._

 

'Let's make the safe word 'Lisa', shall we?'

 

'Yes, Sir.'

 

'Doublet.'

 

Harry is confused for a split second, then he feels the mirror give way against his back and Draco steps forward again, leaving him to scramble over the edge of the gilt frame and backwards into another room, a strong, pale hand still tight on his neck. _Password_ he guesses. Then, _bedroom?_ as he takes in the sight around him. Dimly lit, dark jewel tones, softness, sheen, drapery, plushness, myrrh, cold, and there, in the corner of his eye, suspended over the bed, the sparkle of fairy lights.

 

He's held up now by the uncomfortable pressure of his trousers and Malfoy's long fingers still wrapped around his throat. He finds he doesn't really mind either, not at all, especially when Malfoy crowds him back against the edge of the bed and mouths at his jaw. The hand against his back, twisted in the waistband of his trousers, relaxes and his arse feels normal again, unassailed. The pressure at his lumbar doesn't wane, though, as Malfoy holds him close and Harry notes a very distinctive pressure against his upper thigh. One he'd never have expected to feel in the mundane day-to-day workings of his single life, certainly not outside of a date or a night of clubbing, and very much never at work, on his lunch break. And he'd only ever — secretly — _imagined_ (vividly, to be fair) that it might be Draco Malfoy creating that pressure. Combined with the forced tightness of his breath, he's almost sure this really _can't_ actually be happening. Or at least that it probably shouldn't be. Not on Ministry time.

 

'Malfoy,' he whispers, and feels the hand on his neck tighten. 'Sir, I—'

 

'You what, Potter?' He huffs his contempt against the sensitive lobe of Harry's ear and follows his own breath with a nip of teeth and a swift lick that has Harry trying instinctively to shy away from the onslaught of sensation.

 

'I actually probably shouldn't be doing this, you're a witness, I—'

 

'You need to shut up, _Pet_ , and get on your knees.'

 

Harry’s every fibre wants to throw himself at the floor, and yet, he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t. 'I could get in trouble.'

 

'You _are_ in trouble.'

 

'I meant with my boss.' _The one I work for. I’m already in trouble with you._

 

Draco pulls back from whatever delightful thing he was just doing to Harry's neck and gives him a Look. 'I'm not entirely sure you fully understand what's going on here, Potter.'

 

'I'm almost entirely sure you're right,' Harry says, and yet he doesn’t think he’s answering Draco at all, he’s almost talking entirely to himself. Because, sure, this is good, but then what? He’ll have got off with a witness — gross misconduct — and it’ll have been _Malfoy_ , which is just… asking for trouble. He’s not managed to forget the _nothing_ that happened in the bathroom after five years, how can he expect to move on from this _something?_

 

‘And yet you do seem to be submitting rather well to it.’

 

‘That’s the easy bit, though, isn’t it, giving in?’ Harry says, quelling slightly under Malfoy’s hard gaze. ‘I meant, what happens next? After this?’

 

'Would you like me to explain it in single syllables?' Malfoy raises an eyebrow. 'Or shall I just show you?' He releases his claim on Harry’s lower back and pushes his fingers into his hair until they’re tangled in the curls at his nape and he pulls down, slow and sure. Harry tips his head back to ease the tug and Malfoy squeezes at his throat for a moment longer than is truly comfortable before pushing down on his collarbone, like he's trying to press him into the floor. A hard nudge at his inner thigh and Harry understands the misunderstanding, finally.

 

He lets himself melt to his knees, sliding down between the solid softness of the mattress behind him and the angled hardness of Malfoy's body against his front. He feels a particularly warm, pointed hardness, in particular, brush against his chest as he goes down. Undeniable and a reminder that at least he's not the only one invested in whatever is happening. Not without some trepidation, of course, part of him is still utterly petrified of what's going on between them right now, what sort of precedent this sets. It's not the part that's tenting the fine black fabric of these trousers though, so it bears little influence on the outcome of his thoughts.

 

‘I meant, what happens tomorrow?’

 

‘I’m not interested in tomorrow, at the moment, Harry.’

 

'I think I get that, now.' Harry feels the hand in his hair shift to adjust to their new position and tighten in warning. 'Sir.' _Fuck. Does he even need a job?_

 

'Good,' Malfoy purrs. 'Remember the safe word? I'm not going to forget after she spent six months playing with you right in front of me because you were scared to have feelings for a boy.'

 

'I wasn't scared because you were a _boy_. I was scared because you're _you_.'

 

'Am I inherently frightening, Potter? Really?' Malfoy sighs, his grip loosening.

 

'Yeah,' Harry breathes. 'Sir.'

 

It's true. Malfoy has always had such an air of knowing exactly who he is, even when he was sure he was a hopeless wretch who was incapable of killing his headmaster, even then, he was powerful in his own self. He was willing to try and _Crucio_ Harry to defend himself, at least, and almost die for it, knowing Harry was more than capable of duelling him. Knowing he'd faced down the very man who was laying all this suffering on him by way of blackmail, and threats and impossible ultimatums. Malfoy was always himself.

 

Harry had wondered for a time, after the war was won (and all they'd felt was loss despite it). How was Malfoy now? Not on the losing side, but not really winning either. His home was decimated, ruined, tainted by darkness and death. His second home, Hogwarts, still burning. It wasn't til he'd returned, unexpectedly, from wherever, to re-do his seventh year with the rest of them that Harry had seen for himself — Malfoy was the same. Self-assured, condescending and unrelentingly posh. It'd been part of the shock of seeing him on his knees in front of Harry that day in the bathroom, that Malfoy was even kneeling at all. Let alone in front of _him_.

 

Here, now, with Harry himself on the floor and Malfoy standing over him with a grip on his hair and a hard light in his eyes... this felt more natural. The contrasting sensations of smooth fabric and hard cock pressed against his cheek felt more right than Malfoy being civil with him. Nice.

 

'Are you afraid of what I'll do to you now?' he asks and Harry almost laughs because he isn't, he realises. He's scared, yes, but only of how much he likes it already, how much more he’s going to want, and how much he's willing to do to satisfy this bizarre internal itch, and what lengths he might go to to get at it, find it, scratch it. He's scared he might be all too capable of something a bit depraved, and that he might prefer it to normal things, and how difficult his sad pursuit of happiness might end up getting if he decides he has a very particular set of interests.

 

'No, Sir,' he says simply. 'I'm only scared I might like it.' And he looks up from under his lashes, mimicking the subservient act of so many who've tried to make him their master. He locks his eyes on Malfoy's (or should it be Draco, now, at least in his head, considering where this is going?). He reaches out with his tongue to lick along the hard length… light, wet, teasing, making the fabric of his trousers shine.

 

'I rather hoped you _would_ like it.'

 

Harry smiles and looks back at what's in front of him. Malfoy's fingers are still fisted in his hair, but instead of drawing Harry's head closer to his dick, he juts his hips forward and makes a sweeping arc, rubbing the firm outline of his arousal from ear to mouth on either side of Harry’s face, turning his head this way and that. It feels like he's being marked, scented, maybe. Like he's been claimed. It feels… good. Freeing. Like, finally, there isn't a lifetime's supply of expectations hovering over him. Like Draco isn't expecting him to be amazing at anything off the bat, isn't expecting to have his world rocked or his existence drawn into question or his vision treated to a hallucinatory hailstorm of stars.

 

Draco just expects him to _behave_.

 

And Harry can do that. He can be good. Especially when there are really clear guidelines and no one is watching. At least, no one that hasn't been through just as much shit as he has. Maybe Draco was on the other side of the war, but he was as much a pawn as Harry was, in the end, and in a handful of small but noticeable ways, he was awful at being evil. He tried for the sake of  his mother, but even that love couldn't make him cold enough to succeed in his directives. So many tiny rebellions. Not least of all, letting Harry take his wand. And well, that was a metaphor that suited the moment if there was ever one.

 

The twisting fingers release his hair and brush it out of his eyes, and Harry doesn't even think about trying to hide his scar, all his self-preservation instincts settling in the back of his mind, pliant and warm. They both have scars. He closes his eyes, hears the rustle and scrape of a hook and eye, then a button, and the pitched hum of a zip lowering. He senses a different warmth, a citrusy musk, a tingle of anticipation.

 

Draco's hand cards back into his hair, curving around the back of Harry's head and moulding to the shape of his skull, putting pressure there, this time, so he's drawn closer, made to nuzzle into the soft, smooth cotton of Draco's boxers. It's hot and heady and Harry can't help but drag his mouth over the shape of him. Can’t help rubbing his cheek, cat-like against the thin fabric. It feels good; the hardness against his temple and his cheekbone, the fragile softness melding around his chin, the void on either side of Draco’s cock as it pulls the fabric away and tight. Harry presses into the space til he finds the taut pelvic muscle hidden below and the tell-tale dip at his hip. He bites gently and is gratified with a low throaty sound from above. He runs his lips along the protrusion of Draco's hipbone, next. Slow, firm, teasing with the threat of teeth. Approval comes in a hard press of cock against the side of his face, the flex of fingers around his skull. A sigh.

 

He runs his hands up the back of Malfoy’s calves, curved and tense as he stands there, presenting himself. Harry’s fingers fall, trembling, into the dip behind his knee, the crisp charcoal fabric offering no resistance to his casual fondling. Moving like tissue paper or water somehow made solid, he can feel the rough curls of leg hair through it, and as he slides his hands up further, the raw heat of Malfoy’s thigh muscles. Harry’s fingers react on their own, squeezing at lean hamstrings as he breathes heavily, almost _panting_ with need, into the dip of Draco’s hip, his teeth closing around the bone, just for a moment. How will he face whatever else is in store for him when this is already so much? If this is what it’s like when all he’s done is unzip his fly… what happens when he lets his trousers drop to the floor, when he frees himself from the stretchy prison of his pants and his cock springs free to bob, naked, against Harry’s cheek?

 

His downfall, perhaps? An aneurysm? The vapors? Hysteria? Maybe his own cock will engorge to the point of actual explosion, or perhaps he’ll just come, here, in his pants, like a teenager. Wouldn’t be the first time Malfoy has sent him over the edge without touching him.

 

‘How do you feel about being tied up?’ comes a soft growl from above him.

 

 _Claustrophobic_ springs to mind, followed by some genuine concern about letting himself, as an Auror, be restrained for leisure when he was still on duty. Besides, ‘I want to be able to touch you,’ he says. He punctuates his words with a quick squeeze of his fingers and slides his hands further up Draco’s legs ‘til they sit right under the cheeks of his arse. The grip on his hair tightens and he’s pulled back, chin tipping up. Draco’s looking down at him, curious.

 

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Though you’d be better off touching yourself.’ Draco smirks, and if not for the proud erection in Harry’s periphery he might have doubted his interest. ‘Do you think you can do that without getting anything on your clothes?’

 

‘Yes. Sir.’

 

‘I mean it, not a drop. No scourgify will touch this fabric. Do you understand?’

 

‘Yes, Sir.’

 

‘And when I fuck down your throat, you’re not to let anything spill out of your mouth. You’re wearing Goblin silk, Pet, and it won’t do to get the fluids of anyone’s affection on it.’

 

Harry’s brain catches on the word _affection_ , and almost forgets to be worried about the first bit, _when I fuck down your throat…_ He’s no stranger to sucking dick but it’s always been a gentle sort of a thing. People had an overwhelming thing about _not damaging The Boy Who Lived_ that had turned his sex life a mediocre shade of vanilla. The contents of the third drawer down in his bedside cabinet was less frigid, and far more agreeable to his curiosity. A small part of him was looking forward to getting to experiment on a human man. The worry, though, came from the fact that those sorts of toys had choke-proof charms on them and didn’t actually spurt come down your throat when you were a good boy. He had a feeling this would be different.

 

‘I’ll try,’ he says.

 

‘Good.’

 

Draco slides his hands from Harry’s hair and turns them on himself, pushing his pants and trousers down below his hips. As expected, his cock leaps free and bounces, pink and solid, at Harry’s eye level. It’s… exactly what he should’ve expected. Neat, pale, hair trimmed around the base, and an even tone all the way to the tip. Straight, smooth, verging on slender, which helps ease Harry’s trepidation somewhat. He decides not to waste time, and more so, not to just stare so much it makes things awkward. He reaches out with his tongue and licks at the tip, tasting salt and bitterness and clean skin. Perfect.

 

He looks up at Draco, still getting comfortable in his new state of undress, spreading his legs so his trousers don’t fall, and tucking his shirttails aside. Their eyes meet and the truth of the situation, the bald honesty of what they’re doing is reflected back from to grey to green. Five years in the making. Perhaps more if they were honest, and they could be now, if they wanted to. But perhaps now wasn’t quite the time to be making heartfelt declarations about their feelings. This wasn’t happening out of love, even if the potential for something more was there, somewhere, under the layered history of anger, jealousy and miscommunication. That was something for tomorrow, if this went okay. If Harry thought it was something worth pursuing, and really, even superficially, the thought of enhancing the diversity of his bedroom escapades with something like this would be enough to keep him coming back. Something that made him feel a little more _present_ , like he was taking life by the horns. Or it was taking him.

 

Draco’s hands find his chin, his jaw, thumbs rub along his cheekbones. Harry feels his eyes flutter shut, his senses looking for some respite from the onslaught. It’s a surprise when a gentle movement of air at his side is followed by the touch of something light and gauzy under his chin. He opens his eyes and he can see another, far smaller, scarf in Draco’s hands. Its movement aligns with a slide of silkiness across his throat, dragging over his stubble and caressing his skin.

 

‘Do you like that?’ he says.

 

Harry can only nod.

 

Draco hums approval and leans to wrap the end around Harry’s neck again, looping it. It’s immediately tighter, and he hears his breath catch softly in his throat. It’s almost like a hug, he thinks, but smoother, more delicate, more dangerous. As Draco steps in again, and the head of his cock presses against Harry’s lips, his endangered breath seems suddenly trivial, second to the heady sensation of rightness this small deviation gives him. He lets his mouth soften, open up to whatever is about to happen here amongst the contrast of unyielding wood and velvet softness in this room, hidden away behind what the public sees.

 

‘Do you like _this_?’

 

Harry doesn’t answer, can’t with his mouth busy, can’t even nod. He relies on his blatant enthusiasm to answer for him as he sucks Draco into his mouth. He watches those grey eyes flutter closed, lips parting as a soft hiss escapes. Harry starts slow, they have an hour, no one’s going to be looking for him, and if this is it, he’d like to make it last.

 

Every second, he wonders when it’s coming: _I’ll fuck down your throat._ The thrill of fear, of discomfort, of being taken over, hovers, uncertain. Because this doesn’t feel quite like that. Even trapped between Draco and the bed, throat bound, with a dick bumping into the soft palate of his mouth. It feels… fine. Is his innate human need for intimacy so bent beyond recognition that this tame version of what he was promised feels normal? Nice? Does his curiosity go beyond a need to not be in charge anymore, to put his faith in others and relax into it, knowing this time it isn’t life-threatening? That this time the only thing at stake is him? His dignity, his comfort, his control. Is he a masochist?

 

Or is Draco… just… enjoying it as it is? Harry pulls off, slowly, licking a thick stripe up the underside of Draco’s cock, til his lips come off with a pop and he breathes, panting, and looks up to find that once-hard-eyed stare gone soft, pupils blown wide. Harry darts his tongue out and licks, once, then again, slower, watching for a change. Waiting for the shift in power that doesn’t come.

 

He leans in, letting the smooth head of Draco’s dick slide along the roof of his mouth til it’s tightly wedged against the very back of his tongue. Then he breathes, deep and through his nose, calming himself like he’s practiced. He presses forward, millimetres at a time, then pulls all the way back, using his lips, swollen as they are, caressing the corona and flexing his fingers into the heat and muscle of Draco’s thighs. He takes him in again. Right up to the point and a little over, revelling in the soft throaty sigh from above. He shifts his hands, smoothing them over the rustling fabric of Draco’s trousers. Down his hamstrings, taut and hard. Curving around to the front at the knee and skating over the light cotton, all the way up to where the tailored waist is lying open, where he can feel a slight tremble in the muscle. He leans forward another few millimetres, the pressure at the back of his throat divine and somehow, he realises, all the better for the choice to do this to himself. To impale himself on Draco’s cock, an act of servitude and trust and absolute surrender he’s never even considered. Because it’s one thing to be pushed, and to like it. It’s another just to jump.

 

His hands brush over the folds of cloth and find skin, warm and tight where it wraps around those prominent hip bones he nibbled at before. His fingers spread, hungry, grabbing higher, clutching at Draco’s waist and pulling him forward, just a touch before backing off again. It occurs to him they’d be better off changing their position, if this is really going to work, but maybe that’s not what they’re doing here anymore. He leans away, concentrating on the tip for a while, casting his eyes up and finding Draco looking flushed and helpless and utterly lost in sensation. He deserves more.

 

Harry retracts a hand from where it rests on Draco’s waist and wraps it tight around his cock instead, holding it still so he can lap at it with a soft tongue. He swirls a circle around it, and liking the gasp it provokes, does it again. And again.

 

‘Oh, _fuck_ , Potter, my god,’ Draco pants, and Harry feels the silk tighten around his neck. His own cock stirs again and he thinks about his promise to not get anything on these trousers, which is a promise he’ll be breaking if he doesn’t pull it out soon because he must be drowning in precum by now.

 

He drops his other hand to his own flies and fumbles with the clasp and the zip, then dives straight into his boxers and sets himself free. Carefully, with his fist clamped around the end. Spreading his knees so he won’t drip on them. He’s at full mast, of course, and as such, the head of his cock clears the fabric of his trousers and hovers above the plush carpet. He wonders if Draco has any rules about that or if the carpet is fair game.

 

Holding himself straight out, he tilts his hips forward and gets comfortable, returning his attention to Draco. All the throaty sighing and happy humming turns to wanton moans and feral growls and hissed declarations of _‘Fuck, Potter,’_ as Harry continues. He keeps one hand on his own cock and one on Draco’s, working his throat a little more each time, feeling the silk tighten around his neck every time he eases himself further onto the hard length, gently, willingly sacrificing his comfort just to hear the pleasure in Draco’s voice. It’s not long before he’s pushing into his own fist, carefully keeping his dick pointing forward, his fingers wrapped around the head, lest he spill a drop of fluid on the trousers. He wonders, with only a tiny part of his mind, why Draco wanted him to keep them on. Whether it’s defiance against the man who ordered them, an illicit defilement out of petty revenge. Or if, like Harry, he likes the feel of them? Maybe it goes further than Harry’s own simple appreciation of comfort, maybe into something more private, meaningful? Maybe the reason he’s a tailor at all is because of things like this… the beauty in pleasing sensations, the textures and colours and weight of fabric. The way a shirt slides up your arms, or a robe hugs your chest, or a simple scarf coils against your throat. Harry’s hand speeds up, and he huffs a deep breath with Draco’s cock still heavy on his tongue. He closes his lips around Draco and drags back, relishing the hopeless groan of pleasure from above him.

 

For the first time, Draco pushes into his mouth and Harry’s heart thuds in anticipation. Rather than seeming ruthless though, Draco’s swift withdrawal and the slight loosening of the scarf seem almost remorseful. Harry looks up at him and sees worry there, and he wonders if Draco’s afraid he’s frightened him or just worried he might have jeopardised his chances of getting off soon. Really, though, the time for Harry to disagree with this is well passed. He’s too far in now, halfway there, committed. He thinks back to his office full of pensieve versions of Draco and knows he certainly can’t go back there wound this tight, so close to getting this out of his system.

 

He slides forward onto Draco’s cock, his mouth hot and the back of his tongue barely twitching at the intrusion. The tightness brings heightened awareness, danger, trust. He moves his hand so he can slide further on, knows he’ll need to breathe soon but so keen to get this right. He tries a few short thrusts before he has to draw back and breathe, tears leaking from the corners off his eyes.

 

He lets the head of Draco’s cock rest between his lips, the bitter taste of precum on his tongue. As he pants, resaturating his blood with oxygen, Draco pushes into his mouth, transfers both ends of the grey silk into one hand and digs the fingers of the other back into Harry’s hair.

 

‘I like you here,’ he says. He looks sad, almost. As though, even in the middle of it, he’s already thinking about goodbye and he doesn’t like it. Harry wants to blurt the truth at him - that he’s happy to stay, since he can’t really seem to get him out of his head anyway and what’s the use in trying when he could be doing this instead? He wants to trust his instincts, even though they’re usually a bit useless, and kneel at Draco’s feet for as long as he’ll have him. Just to be treated… well, not normally. But like he’s a real person with flaws and inadequacies and stupid things he’s done that keep him up at night. Draco knows the stupid things he’s done. Provoked a good proportion of them. Definitely provoked this one, if it turns out to be stupid. Harry hopes very much that it doesn’t. He hopes very much it won’t be the last time it happens either. He pulls his head back, and Draco lets him, curious, perhaps, about what he’s going to say.

 

‘I like being here,’ is what comes out, and at least it’s true, even if it’s not very sexy, or profound, or even original.

 

‘At my feet, or simply this close to a thousand galleon French rug?’ Draco smirks.

 

That answers the question about whether Harry’s allowed to come on the carpet. He wipes the smug look off Draco’s face with a swift lick, and slows his hand. Maybe he won’t be coming at all. He wonders if it matters. Wonders if perhaps there’d be no getting this out of his system, either way. Maybe there was only embedding it deeper, closer to the bone with each drag of his tongue. Or, hell, maybe there’ll be a next time where it’s his turn, or maybe Draco will throw him down on the bed after he’s done and return the favour. The thought ripples through him as he imagines being ensconced in the downy folds of the enormously poofy duvet at his back and he can’t help but let his hand speed up again, short strokes directly into his slippery palm.

 

He feels himself getting closer a lot quicker than he expected and the building urgency of his task becomes apparent. He can’t decide which of them should come first, but if there was any chance Draco might throw him down on this bed, it should be him, and Harry should try and hold off, just in case. If he could.

 

Draco chooses that moment to pull the scarf tighter and push past Harry’s lips again. He thrusts gently in and out, shallow, an indulgent groan vibrating out from his throat. Harry lets him, curling his tongue around the head of Draco’s cock and keeping his lips relaxed, pillowy. He breathes carefully, even, measured breaths, wondering if this is where it changes, glad he’s warmed up now at least.

 

As the sounds of Draco’s pleasure grow more frequent, more careless, overlapping eventually ‘til it’s one long undulating moan of approval, Harry caresses the head of his own dick, still held out over the carpet, still wrapped in his hand, still slick and sensitive and pushing him closer and closer to the edge. His own throaty sounds seem to please Draco, and Harry wonders how well the vibrations travel. Draco must wonder too, because he thrusts a little deeper, crossing that point on Harry’s tongue where his gag reflex used to kick in.

 

It’s nice. Both the feeling of being vital to someone’s enjoyment and the warm rush of self-satisfaction that all his practice has paid off. One particularly wanton utterance from above is accompanied with a tug on the silk wrapped around his neck and Harry’s cock twitches in his fist and he nears, ever closer, to a point of no return. His hand is a blur, all his instincts begging for fast loose strokes, and yet knowing it isn’t allowed, that he must stay contained. It’s the most controlled he’s been with it since the war, and the tent, praying he wouldn’t be overheard. There’s something in that control, the obedience, that makes it better, even if the sensation isn’t the same as what he usually needs.

 

Draco’s pace increases, his breath coming in gasps and _‘Fuck’_ s and Harry feels the tip of his cock edge closer and closer to the tight hole of his throat as he lets go of Harry’s hair and cups his chin instead. The tenderness of his touch is so unexpected, Harry feels his gut drop and he’s suddenly there, somehow, past the point, running downhill at high speed. When he feels Draco wrap warm fingers around his lips, right where he’s shoving his own cock, squeezing them tight against his shaft as he pumps away, Harry lets out a moan of hopeless joy and feels himself cresting. He draws it out as long as he can, suspended in a sea of heightened sensitivity, every slide of his hand, every twist, every soft nudge to the very back of his throat enough to make him blind with pleasure. He thinks this must be the absolute peak of his adult life as he tenses, thigh muscles bunching, and he’s wrong, because then he feels Draco jerk and hears him cry out and hot cum hits his throat, then a pressure that cuts off his airway and a thrumming pulse as Draco twitches out his release, and Harry crashes into an orgasm unlike any he’s ever experienced. His hand is shot full of semen in a heartbeat, it spurts between his fingers, drips thick down onto the expensive silk carpet, and he’s still convulsing, even as Draco loosens the silk scarf at his throat and eases carefully out of Harry’s mouth. He strokes at Harry’s neck as he’s trying to swallow without losing any, humming his approval as the muscles work against his fingers.

 

‘Well done, Pet,’ he purrs and Harry feels both gratified and guilty, as he knows he’s failed a little.

 

‘Sorry,’ he rasps, and looks down at his softening cock, and his hand, drenched in his own spunk. Beyond it, the carpet is glittered with white pearls.

 

There’s a sigh. ‘Well at least you didn’t get it on your clothes I suppose,’ Draco says. ‘Did you?’

 

‘No,’ Harry gives him a defiant look. ‘The trousers are clean.’

 

‘Regardless, Pet,’ Draco croons. ‘We’re going to need to practice that again, aren’t we?’


End file.
